John Gideon is a creature of habit, and his voicemail is always checked at six o'clock every morning. There's a new one, which is a little surprising—he's kept his old cell phone number, just in case. He's never bothered asking himself 'just in case what', knowing that he can't think too hard about that.
He recognizes Derek Morgan's number by the first digits, and is held paralyzed, praying to a God that he can't make himself believe in.
"Gid—John," the voicemail begins; Morgan's voice is shaking, almost imperceptibly. Gideon's lips are already moving in silent prayer, knowing there's only one reason that Derek Morgan would be leaving him a voicemail.
"I—I don't know how to say this," it continues, and suddenly his prayer is no longer silent; he's saying, quietly, "No, no, no, no, please, God, no," over the voicemail, but Morgan's soft voice is still terribly audible. "But... John, Spencer died last night." A pause, and his voice grows louder, "No, no, please, no—"
"His funeral's on the twentieth... at the Thompson Cemetery... I just thought I'd let you know."
The voicemail ends, and Gideon is left, his elbows on his desk, hands clasped together in front of him, head bowed, his lips moving again in silent prayer—not for denial, now, but for forgiveness.
